


darlin’, lots of planets have a south

by PeachGO3



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Study, Confused Spock (Star Trek), First Kiss, Fluff, Homesickness, M/M, Spock thinks a lot about Bones in this, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: They say the Doctor is a Southern Belle, but Spock can’t agree. What makes a true Southern Belle? McCoy decides to invite him for a little guessing game; turns out it’s a special way to his heart.Chinese translation available!
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 12
Kudos: 110





	darlin’, lots of planets have a south

**Author's Note:**

> This got much longer and themed™ than I originally intended lol, but I’m happy how it turned out. The only Doctor Who reference is the title, promise.
> 
> Huge thank you to aaamoon who translated this to Chinese (*´▽`*)
> 
> edit 13/06/2020: I only now found out what the word "antebellum" means. The lyrics at the end of this fic are from the song "The Stars" by Lady A, a country band who previously had used "antebellum" in their name. I think their sound matches Bones' character, but I apologize if my choice made anybody uneasy. I'm glad I have been educated in that regard! Stay safe! ♡

**I. Caring**

With steady hands, Doctor McCoy removes the last arrowhead from the Captain’s shoulder, and Spock feels his lungs breathing steadier than before. But still he is not at ease. McCoy gives him an assuring side-glance and then orders Nurse Chapel to assist him in closing the wound. His voice is calm as always.

The duality of Leonard McCoy is fascinating, because it is like human nature in a Petri dish: soft and calm, quiet and small, nurturing and reassuring. And then – all of a sudden – brash, raging, loud. But when he’s working, Doctor McCoy is the most collected human Spock has ever met.

He has thought about this often these past few weeks, and now the thoughts intwine him once more.

The surgery is over soon. McCoy cleans his hands with a disinfectant and steps towards Spock with small beads of sweat on his forehead. “He will be as good as new,” he drawls, giving Spock a tired smile.

“Thank you,” Spock says and finally steps to the bed. Jim is sleeping, but he is not in pain anymore. “I have been careless,” Spock utters, but he’s not quiet enough for McCoy to overhear him: “It’s not your fault, Spock, and you know that. Stay by his side if you want, but he’s gonna sleep for a while now. He needs to rest.”

“Then why should I stay by his side?” Spock mechanically asks to distract himself.

“Why, because he’d like your company anyway,” McCoy says. “Just tell me when you’ll leave, okay?” With the surgery’s memory card in his hands, he gives Spock a last smile before leaving for his office.

The very profession of a doctor is ambivalent, Spock thinks, because it functions by science but is driven by love and care – emotions that extend the sheer want to do good. To McCoy, there was more to healing than closing wounds and doing medical checks.

Spock turns his heavy head to look at Jim’s steady breathing and glistening face. He is safe now, they are out of danger, he says to himself. It feels strange for him to be less calm than McCoy. But if he’s lucky, then maybe the Doctor hasn’t noticed.

Silent, he sits down beside the Captain, swearing to let nothing distract him from keeping his eyes on him.

**II. Heritage**

It is needless to say that Doctor McCoy has done a good job; within two days Jim is back on the bridge. He is commanding as always, and he is also available for games of chess and little talks. Only two days ago, Spock had already parted with the hope of being able to do any of this with him ever again.

They’re having dinner tonight with Doctor McCoy, like they’ve had some time before in the past. Jim has suggested a fried Terran dish that apparently is much to the Doctor’s taste and meant as a way of saying thank you – which is redundant, Spock finds, but the Captain has made sure to disguise it as just another evening among friends, which Spock can agree with more. Furthermore, he does find the human urge to express gratitude so charming and persistent that he decides not to comment on it. It is not the Vulcan way. Just as he thinks this, he remembers he said thanks to McCoy as well, just after the Captain’s surgery, in the heat of the moment; McCoy would probably remember too.

“And peaches directly from Georgia,” Jim says and flashes his doctor a bright smile, which is mirrored in an equally bright manner. McCoy’s blue eyes sparkle at the sight of the Terrestrial fruits. “And also peanuts and pecans. Try those, Mister Spock, you’ll like them,” Jim says and hands Spock the little basket.

“Not bad indeed,” Spock agrees. Rather nutritious. However, he would never glorify nourishments as excessively as the sensualist that is McCoy.

“I’m glad you like those,” the Doctor smiles and gulps his drink to take another one. “From McCoy’s home, from hot Georgia nights, beamed right aboard. Anything for our brilliant doctor,” Jim says and adds playfully, “The USS Enterprise’s proud Southern Belle.” With a snicker, the men clink glasses, an action that is always accompanied by intense eye contact from McCoy. Spock nips at his glass, observing.

“Isn’t it amazing how my attitude towards that nickname has changed?” McCoy muses. “People at the Academy used to wind me up with it, but now I couldn’t care less. I’d say I even take a little pride in it.”

The Captain snickers at that statement. “Well, Bones, you must admit it’s kind of fitting. Don’t you think so too, Mister Spock?”

Spock straightens his shoulders, unprepared to be part of this conversation. Drily, he says, “While Doctor McCoy is undoubtably from the Southern parts of the United States of America, from where this term originated, the latter, French half can hardly apply, because the grammatical gender of the nominalization ‘belle’ is female.”

There is silence except for the soft guitar music in the background, and four eyes stare at him in surprise. But while the Captain’s are soft and kind, McCoy’s are sharp and bright in his hardening face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“I think Mister Spock just called you a _man_,” the Captain says with overplayed drama.

“I have merely stated a fact,” Spock says calmly. “However, my personal opinion, too, is that I do not think the term applies to Doctor McCoy for the very same reason.”

McCoy’s glance drops down to the table as Jim snickers into his glass. “I guess my attitude towards it depends on _who_ is calling me that,” he says stiffly.

“Undoubtedly. However, in any case, the term is simply not entirely accurate. You should not take it personal.”

“Spock,” Jim interrupts softly, laying a hand onto his arm, “don’t think of it as literal. The Southern Belle is… a literary figure, so to speak,” he explains. “Its history is rooted in the US South, but it has evolved over time. It’s actually fairly complicated, the more I think about it.”

“I see,” Spock answers. “I shall research it in the history banks as soon I have got time available.”

“You should really do that,” Jim says with an affectionate smile (he already drank 1.46 liters of alcoholic beverages, Spock recalls).

While the color of Doctor McCoy’s face stays unusual, the evening continues in a normal fashion, and the Southern Belle topic is not brought up again.

**III. Beauty**

On their way to Starbase 4, McCoy visits the bridge with such frequency that Spock can’t help but notice an abnormality. Normally, if not here on captain’s orders, McCoy visits one to three times a day and stays for averagely 33.64 minutes. This week however, he has already visited six times and stayed for about 56 minutes each time. He has conversation with everybody, including Spock, despite Spock obviously trying to concentrate on his duty as a Science Officer first and foremost. McCoy’s little bouncing rate has also risen (now averaging amazing 3.5 times per day), and he bounces right now too, as he’s approaching Spock and greets him warmly.

“How are you today?”

“I am feeling quite well,” Spock answers. “Regarding my body and health, nothing is out of the ordinary.”

“That’s nice to hear,” McCoy says, and Spock can see on his throat that he surpresses a laugh. “Listen, there’s something that I want to say thank you for, actually.”

“Naturally,” Spock says as friendlily as he can. McCoy straightens up and drawls, “While your literal thinking always gets my hackles up, I appreciate the fact that it was just the grammatical gender you argued about, and not whether or not I’m actually good-looking. You know, back when we were discussing the… Southern Belle thing.”

Spock musters his softened face and wonders if this is seriously what’s been moving the Doctor the past few days. Does it really need explaining? Spock holds his eye contact and replies, “Beauty is not an absolute construct, Doctor. But you do have features that would be described as ‘good-looking’ by most human individuals, such as: blue eyes, prominent eyelashes and a petite frame. Those are your visual charming points and they are quite obvious.”

Throughout this explanation, McCoy’s face has grown paler. “You’re talking about a woman’s charming points, you hobgoblin,” he grumbles, blinking disapprovingly.

“Then maybe the term ‘belle’ does apply after all,” Spock says, lips curled, and turns around to watch the X-scanner. He can hear a variety of negative emotions in McCoy’s huff as he returns to the turbo lift and can’t help but smile – bodily beauty is such a fragile topic for humans, no matter how often they claim to not be affected by conceitedness and vanity and gender conventions.

But the fact that actually, yes, even the feminine form of the word ‘beau’ does apply to Doctor McCoy makes Spock think. He decides that he should have a look at the history banks once this shift was over.

**IV. Fainting**

Vanity was, indeed, one of the points the library and history banks listed as characteristics of the Southern Belle. It coincided with her conventional beauty, something that she must have in order to fulfill the image of the ideal woman. There were lots of these feminine ideals on Earth alone, in many different Terran cultures: Higher Daughter, English Rose or Yamato Nadeshiko, to name a few. Spock thought it was tidy of humans to give names to these unachievable ideals, it made things easier to catalogue. On Vulcan, the ideal model of femininity had no name attached to it. Maybe that was because there was only one, and it was generally achieved.

Wasn’t it?

Human standards for women however could often not be met. The computer explained that that is one of the reasons why the term of the Southern Belle is outdated since the twentieth century and has morphed into a literary figure, often used ironically or in a deconstructive manner. Which was quite interesting – why would Doctor McCoy be _proud_ to be called something that a) wasn’t real and b) was frowned or even laughed upon? Most illogical. But not surprising.

“There are more characteristics to this,” Spock recited. “The Southern Belle, or ideal Southern woman of nineteenth century America, is generally outgoing, sociable and caring; all of which undoubtedly apply to you, Doctor.”

McCoy looked to the table top with a nod as though Spock talking disrupted his dinner in any way, which would be quite a stretch, so Spock continued, “You have also repeatedly been the subject to fainting, oftentimes because you injected untested medication into your own veins before giving it to anybody else. But you have also collapsed from fatigue or shock before. One time, even into my arms. Which fits the Southern Belle archetype quite accurately.”

“God, I wish Jim would’ve never brought it up,” McCoy says with closed eyes, and Spock watches him closely as he reopens them with a smirk. “Normally,” he says in a vastly different tone, “I’d ask you what else you read about.”

Spock opens his mouth to continue, but McCoy interrupts him to add: “Out of sheer politeness.” He laughs. “I don’t have to be polite with you, Spock. I have something different on my mind.”

McCoy gestures him to come closer. There’s a familiar movement in his eyes when he says, “Let’s play a game, shall we? I can see how eager you are on this, but so far your research has been… incomplete. You try to find out the one thing that’s crucial – absolutely indispensable – to a true Southern Belle, and you tell me. You got, say… three tries, how’s that sound?”

The mischievous grin and risen eyebrows, which make the blue eyes shine even brighter, catch Spock off-guard, and seeing how he does not know how else to handle this strange suggestion, he just presses his lips together and blinks fast four times.

“C’mon, Spock, you’re in for such things, aren’t you?”

“I don’t see the sense in this kind of action in our current situation,” Spock says. “In the beginning, I wanted to prove that you are not, in fact, a Southern Belle” – McCoy hastily gestures him to lower his voice – “and now that I accept that you do indeed share a lot of this archetype’s characteristics, you are still antagonizing me. What would you gain by having me figure out what’s most important to this part of your identity, apart from seeing me fail and taking delight in my defeat?”

There is a pause of silent but intense eye contact, and then McCoy’s face breaks into a silent laugh. “It’s actually amazing how serious you take this, you green-blooded spoiler,” he chuckles and looks up at Spock through his eyelashes. “Just a game, Spock,” he says.

“You already said that, but it does not render your suggestion more reasonable.”

“Look,” McCoy says, sitting back to finally have his meal, “if you don’t guess right after three tries, I’ll prepare a little surprise for you. Whaddaya say?”

Spock considers that. “What if I find the desired answer?” he asks and observes something move around the Doctor’s eyes. “If so, then my surprise will be no surprise to you,” he drawls terribly vaguely, and Spock suppresses an annoyed sigh.

“Very well,” he says, trying to think of this situation as a favor for his cherished colleague. “I am sure the history banks will enlighten me. Your food, Doctor, has grown cold by now. Let me get your tray heated up.”

**V. Countryside**

The next day, Spock does find himself pretty invested indeed. He curses himself for falling victim to the Doctor’s foul attempt to awaken a sense of competition in him, but ultimately decides to roll with it, because withdrawing from an agreement, however petty its nature, is no way for an honorable Vulcan. Besides, Spock finds with mild alert, the Doctor’s eyes have glowed with something so obliging that he cannot help but play along.

What’s important to be kept in mind was that Spock was not looking for a general definition of a Southern Belle, but McCoy’s personal image of it. Whatever answer Spock may come up with, it had to be rooted deeply in the Doctor’s thought process and mind. In turn, if a person did not meet the desired criteria, they wouldn’t be a ‘true’ Southern Belle in McCoy’s eyes.

And so, he begins to take stock: Care and love were the first things that came to Spock’s mind when thinking of the Doctor as a Southern Belle, but McCoy has deemed these characteristics as insufficient. Beauty and a tendency to faint weren’t the desired answers either.

To Spock, the most logical answer would be ‘Southern heritage’, because that’s what the term ultimately expresses, isn’t it? It would be most unfitting to call someone a Southern Belle when they came from the Northern parts of the United States. Or any other part of the Earth, for that matter.

But Spock remembered his captain’s words; the Southern Belle is more than just the Southern heritage. So, this probably isn’t what McCoy is imagining as the most crucial part of the archetype.

Spock kneads his bottom lip as he stares at the computer’s screen. It must have to do with the Southern states, mustn’t it?

“Computer, show me photos of the Southern parts of the United States of America.”

“Working…”

Spock frowns. Pictures of outdated flags, maps and enslaved Africans in chains glimmer on the screen. But one of the pictures shows nature: a sunny landscape with high grass and hanging trees and a wooden wheelbarrow. “Show me more of this,” Spock says.

More giant trees and wide fields are revealed to him. Flowers and sunshine in deep green, and things like a white fence or old country houses could be seen in the background. All of these places look as if a variety of insects would be chirping in the grasses, and just looking at these peaceful pictures is calming, Spock finds – and pauses.

This is it, isn’t it?

McCoy adores peaceful and calm environments, especially ones that are so deeply Terrestrial and faraway from the coldness of outer space. The old-fashioned country houses are undoubtably his taste too, as were sunshine and cool summer breezes.

‘Hot Georgia nights’, Spock remembers the Captain saying. And he remembers the Doctor mentioning that if he finds the right answer, Spock will know what kind of surprise McCoy would’ve prepared in case the riddle remained unsolved – probably a trip to these parts of the states.

As Spock makes his way down to sickbay, he cannot help but indulge in the relief that his hyperfixation would finally be put to an end. And his mind wanders… If McCoy seriously planned a trip to Earth, to the US, it must happen after the five-year mission. Would he mean it as a way to send Spock off? Would he want to continue the friendship that has been formed during the five years in deep space? Maybe he would show Spock where he grew up. Introduce him to family members who still lived there. Go on strolls through green nature and watch sunsets turn into ‘hot Georgia nights’, whatever that was.

The image unsettles just as much as it appeals. The unknown is appealing. And time spent with McCoy, as exhausting as it could be from time to time, is always enlightening in terms of human nature. It is also pleasant on a more personal level, but Spock does not look too deeply into that.

“It’s a strong identification with the Southern countryside, its rich nature and wide green ranches, as well as nostalgic feelings towards outdated Southern architecture,” he says to a smile-suppressing McCoy.

“Have I ever told you how hilariously straight your face stays during conversations like this?” he snickers.

“Why, thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy laughs drily and plays with the touchpen in his hand. “So, that’s your answer, yeah?” he asks after a while. Spock straightens up and says, “affirmative”, pulling another laugh from the Doctor, who now stands up and walks up to him.

“You should see the South, you logical Vulcan,” he drawls.

“I have,” Spock says, unsure how to take the familiar compliment in this context. “In photos, that is.”

For a moment, McCoy looks at him in a way that makes Spock fear he’ll unload a disquieting amount of landscape metaphors onto him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just says, “well”, crosses his arms and bounces slightly. “While your description of the South’s beauty is very accurate, it’s not what I meant. Sorry, Spock.”

Spock feels a movement on his own face and tries to govern himself more strongly; however he cannot stop his right eyebrow from rushing upwards. “How unfortunate,” he says.

“Why? You still got two tries,” McCoy says with a smile.

Spock shifts as he realizes what he’s been fantasizing about – to go to Earth, to McCoy’s homeplace? To watch sunsets together? Ridiculous. “I must admit that I was fairly sure this was what you’d think of as a Southern Belle’s most integral characteristic.”

“Well, a certain love for old country houses and sunlit ranches is a big part of it, especially when you call such places home,” McCoy concedes and looks up at Spock coyly. The blue of his eyes is strangely prominent.

“It seems to be a calming environment,” Spock says absently.

“You have no idea,” McCoy drawls and moves past Spock to get something from the medicine cupboard. Spock watches his back as he gathers some supplies, until McCoy stops to softly say, “You’re making me all sentimental with those images, you know that, Spock, don’t you?”

“It was not my intention,” Spock says truthfully. He excuses himself and leaves, awfully nagged by both the knowledge that he’d have to continue this game and the presumption that he awakened a bittersweet sense of deeply human home sickness in the Doctor.

**VI. Belligerence**

“How is your shoulder?”

The Captain shifts in his chair and smiles at Spock. “Good, thanks. Getting better each day.”

“I am relieved to hear that,” Spock says and crosses his hands behind his back, now that he knows he does not have to get the Captain anything. But something on his face must move (or maybe it’s the total absence of movements?), because the Captain sighs and says, “Spock, it’s not your fault.”

“Debatable.”

“Look -” Jim begins and stands up, but Spock respectfully interrupts him: “I did not come here to discuss whether or not I am to blame for letting you go into that canyon alone, Captain.” Why does Jim want to argue about this? Is he so human that he can’t understand a simple, logical contrafact?

Jim sighs and softens. “Good. ‘cause there’s nothing to discuss,” he says with a smile and touches Spock’s arm in this all too familiar gesture of care. Although they mean the exact opposite things, it’s an answer Spock is willing to accept.

“By the way, what’s up with Bones? He seems… coltish as of lately. Dreamy even,” Jim says and turns to get some of the salty snacks he keeps on his desk.

“Well observed, Captain. Doctor McCoy has invited me to a game of figuring out what quality makes a true Southern Belle. With two tries left, my chances are presumably not that bad.”

“A guessing game? About Southern Belles? Spock, I never knew,” Jim laughs and hands him a cracker, which he respectfully declines. Jim playfully crooks his head and eats it himself. “Well, what has been your first try?” he asks.

“Seeing how ‘Southern heritage’ would be too broad of an answer, I went for Southern nature romanticism and nostalgia instead,” Spock says.

“That’s pretty accurate though,” the Captain points out. “But not only to Southerners. I have pretty strong nostalgic feelings about Riverside, and you probably carry fond memories of Vulcan cities.”

“While that is true,” Spock says, “I would argue that Doctor McCoy’s attachment to his home place is significantly stronger than ours.”

“Well, he’s McCoy,” the Captain says and musters Spock with a smile. Then he says, “Let me help you, all right?”

Spock quirks an eyebrow at him. He did not want his Captain – out of all people – to be dragged into this ridiculous charade. “I know you are well-read in human literature,” Spock begins his protest, but the Captain signals him to wait.

“The Southern Belle,” he says slowly and with an enthusiastic gesture, “is flirty – but ultimately prude. That’s one of her key characteristics, in the great classics at least. The Southern Belle is a determined woman that radiates self-esteem and knows who she wants-” He stops himself, and Spock quirks another eyebrow at him.

“You know what, Spock?” the Captain says with a frown. “Forget what I just said. You probably shouldn’t come up to Bones and call him a prude.”

Spock’s mind starts rattling. “Certainly,” he agrees absently. Not ‘prude’, but ‘determined’. The Captain is right, the Doctor is usually very assertive about his positions. It’s something he would uphold with great care.

“You are witty, feisty and not afraid of calling people out, regardless of their status, all of which are desired characteristics of the ideal woman of the old South and thus, probably, your desired answer.”

McCoy leans back against his desk and closes his eyes. “I’ll have to let that sink in for a moment,” he says with a chuckle. Spock folds his arms in the comforting certainty that he has massaged this human’s ego a fair bit with his answer. Of course the Doctor would like to think of himself as clever and righteous. Both of which, Spock has to admit, he actually is. To a certain degree. Of course he’d pride himself on these characteristics. Of course.

He waits patiently for another reaction. When Nurse Chapel walks past them with an affectionate snort, McCoy straightens up and opens his eyes, only to drag Spock into a quieter corner of the sickbay. His touch on Spock’s arm is oddly cautious, and still he apologizes for it when they stand in-between filled cupboards and record tapes.

“I know you’re sensitive to touches, I forgot myself there for a moment.” Blue eyes meet Spock’s with utmost sincerity.

“I need not be handled with kid gloves, Doctor,” Spock reminds him.

“Yeah. Hardly,” McCoy says softly, looking down briefly before meeting Spock’s eyes again. It’s weirdly appealing, and Spock holds the gaze. But when McCoy does not speak up after 7.94 seconds of eye contact, Spock inquires, “Is ‘belligerence’ your desired answer?”

McCoy licks his lips and straightens up. “As flattering as it is – no.”

Spock feels his patience close to shattering. Restraint, he clenches his jaw, which makes McCoy’s smile grow wider. “Only one try left,” he reminds him. “I can see it’s nagging at you.”

“It is a ridiculous and highly illogical situation,” Spock all but snarls, making McCoy bounce again. He leans in to ask, “You want a… a tip?”

“A tip?”

“Yes, a clue,” McCoy says with raised eyebrows as if to invite him. Taken aback, Spock shifts. “Very well. Go ahead,” he says.

McCoy playfully puckers his eyebrows when he says, “Get more… concrete. As always, you’re going too abstract, Spock.” He folds his hands. “That being said, I have to say – belligerence is something I’d attach to your character as well. In the most positive meaning of the word, needless to say. You’re a good guy to have arguments with.” Then his eyes narrow in a friendly smile, and now Spock knows that he isn’t mocking him. It’s not respect either. No schadenfreude, no, it’s something else. Hard to catalogue. For a moment, Spock wonders if winning the game is McCoy’s goal at all.

Absently, he nods. “I shall keep it in mind.”

**VII. Dresses**

Admitting that, yes, this situation does get on his nerves was a whole new problem for Spock. It is only a little game, some stupid human idea of pastimes – slowly but surely it began to affect Spock’s capability as Science Officer. Every single minute of his free time would be spent with looking up facts and pictures and Terrestrial literature.

Contrasting with this frustration is the positive feeling of the Doctor’s gaze dropping down in front of him. Spock wants to be looked at like that again, but simultaneously tries to avoid talking to McCoy for the next days. He catches himself wondering about what else he thinks of him, other than contentious. All of this is terribly confusing and terribly time consuming, and it debilitates Spock.

Every time he sits in front of the computer, he recalls what McCoy has told him: a) X is concrete, nothing abstract like feelings, b) the absence of X would make the person no ‘true’ Southern Belle, c) X forestalls some sort of surprise McCoy would prepare in case Spock would lose the game.

Spock sighs at yet another photo slideshow. It’s late already, he should go to bed, he thinks, but then a photo catches his attention. He’s seen it before, it’s the one with the young woman leaning against a fence in the green. She’s wearing a bright Terran dress that looks simple and complicated at the same time.

d) X is historically female. ‘Belle’. The very core of the term.

At this time of day, the Doctor must be in his quarters already, which is why Spock rings the bell on McCoy’s doors shortly after. This game would end now and here.

After 14.36 seconds, the doors swish open to reveal a semi-straight standing Doctor McCoy with alarmed but disappointingly tiny eyes. He breathes in deeply, and Spock can see that he’s trying to look presentable.

“I’m sorry to have woken you,” he says, giving his voice just enough levity to signal that this isn’t a medical emergency.

McCoy understands and relaxes. “Not at all. I wasn’t sleeping,” he drawls and gestures Spock to come in. The room temperature is even lower than that of the Captain’s quarters, but Spock does not mind today for some reason. He is preoccupied with holding back his words until McCoy signals him to speak up.

“You’re here for… what, exactly?” the Doctor asks him slowly, rubbing his exhausted face to stay awake.

“My third answer,” Spock says, hands behind his back and face all straight.

“Well,” McCoy says while sitting down onto his bed to look at Spock. “Shoot.”

Spock nods respectfully and says, “In all of my thinking, I have failed to notice the obvious. To be unable to see the forest for the trees, as a colorful human like you might say. However, a recollection of our first instance of discussing the matter, back at our dinner with the Captain, brought me the desired answer. In addition to the tip you gave me, I think I solved your small riddle with the help of a contemporaneous photo.”

McCoy listened closely throughout the explanation. He crosses his arms, looking up not nearly as invested as he should, to ask, “So, what is it, Mister Spock?”

“The female core of the term, Doctor,” Spock replies. “It stems from a time where gender-conventional clothing was unalterable. The women of the Southern United States at that time wore ruched dresses in bright pastel colors, accompanied by a parasol and a big hat to protect the fair skin from burning or growing dark.”

McCoy’s small body shakes when he laughs. “You have not thought about that earlier? About the dress?” he asks, arms crossed to warm himself.

“When the computer first showed me photos and film stills, I quickly dismissed it as your desired answer, because I have never seen or known you to wear such clothing. It would therefor seem illogical for you to find this the most crucial aspect of a Southern Belle identity,” Spock recalls.

“Indeed,” McCoy says. He looks tiny on the big bed, despite this being his own quarters, black underwear in stark contrast to the golden bedsheets. Spock blinks when his mind imagines this man in a Southern dress in what almost feels like excitement for McCoy’s eventual ‘surprise’.

He shakes it off with a long blink. “However, I figured that – even though human culture came a long way since Earth’s nineteenth century – you’d still consider a pastel frill dress ‘gender-nonconforming dress-up’, so you would presumably proceed to build an emotional wall around the matter and refrain from partaking in the action, even if you actually liked it, so that fellow humans would not notice your shame in wearing women’s clothing.”

“What?” McCoy asks wearily. Spock shifts. “Because they are so vital to your nature, I thought your emotional whims were something to bear in mind when solving the riddle,” he states. “To dismiss emotion when trying to get to your core would be fatal, Doctor.”

For almost 24 seconds, there is a sparkling pause diffusing in the room. McCoy spends 9.56 seconds of them with looking straight into Spock’s eyes from underneath his lashes, and he only breaks the eye contact to snicker, which is a sound Spock finds just as pleasant by now.

Such a long pause would indicate that McCoy has been defeated. Maybe he is arranging himself with the image of himself in a ruched country dress, and Spock prepares to appease him and decline the ‘surprise’ out of decency.

But then McCoy starts speaking, and he says, “So, the dress? That’s the honest conclusion you came to?”

“It certainly is the most logical one,” Spock says, still not moving.

“Certainly. Great logical thinking of yours.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Also, it’s… outstandingly sweet of you to consider my own feelings while arriving at that conclusion,” McCoy says softly and with a most sincere expression. Then his eyes start roaming again. Spock swallows and wants to keep his stone face, but he can’t – he looks down and then up again, because he does not want to miss any moment of McCoy looking at him like that. And then he even smiles himself. It feels good to be complimented like that by him.

McCoy shifts on the bed, arms still crossed, and sniffs two times ere saying, “Well, I hate to break it to you – but it wasn’t the dress.”

Spock is so busy surveying his micro-expressions that he processes this information far too late. His smile slowly fades. “Excuse me?” he hears himself ask.

Still soft, McCoy laughs with his tongue stuck out, an extremely casual gesture which Spock has just seen doing him once before. “It’s not the dress, Spock,” he says, voice laced with amusement.

“I wondered about this fact before,” Spock blurts out, “but I need to tell you that I have not failed to notice that the delight you keep expressing in this game is, curiously, not directed towards my nonsuccess.”

“Affirmative,” McCoy says with wide opened eyes. “It’s just my… devilish joy for you discovering Southern culture and reminding me of why I love… it so much.” There’s a headshake in his sentence that adds to a weird staccato in his phrasing. Spock pretends to not have heard it.

“I lost, you won,” he says simply.

“Argh, Spock, it was never about winning,” McCoy says with a dismissive gesture. His face is glowing with a brand of happiness that is so distinctively _his_ that Spock feels himself softening in the familiarity; he mellows. And he keeps mellowing. Especially when McCoy invites him to the observation deck for tomorrow evening, for the surprise and the definite answer to the riddle.

Surprisingly, Spock does not need to try hard to restrain himself from wanting to guess what these could be, almost as if they did not matter indeed. He simply looks forward to seeing Leonard McCoy.

**VIII. Home**

So, the Doctor is a Southern Belle, and he prides himself on it. His Southern heritage is very dear to him, as are Southern nature and architecture. He’s pretty and sometimes vain, and he has a tendency to faint. He’s belligerent whenever he senses injustice and tries to carry out his occupation as a healer no matter the circumstances.

And here, Spock thinks, lies a prime characteristic that seems to be missing from the Southern Belle trope: Leonard McCoy is brave. Neither his captain nor alien dictators of strange new worlds can order him to stay quiet; he would still speak up despite his fear. His courage is present in his will to self-sacrifice in order to save others. This principle does not only apply to his kind, it extends to his enemies; where McCoy sees his chance to heal, he takes it, no matter the circumstances. The most interesting aspect about this fact, Spock thinks, is that it does not even happen out of a sense of duty. It’s just caring, plain and simple.

Love for others, one might say. No matter how often Spock thinks about the Doctor, it always boils down to this.

He watches McCoy very closely the next day.

In the evening, Spock makes his way to the observation deck (arriving precisely at 2100), a place that he visits all too rarely. Back on Vulcan he’d look into the starry sky every night, trying to find a place to fit in among the stars rather than fellow Vulcans, despite knowing that desperation was a human emotion. Spock wanted to leave for space.

McCoy, on the other hand, wanted anything but space. He wanted Georgia and sunshine and familiarity.

Absently, Spock’s hand ghosts over the main window’s glass, his gaze falling freely into the deep, dark night. Endless. How very alien it must feel when the ground beneath your feet used to be grassy and warm and everything used to be so very simple – Spock understands that better now. The Southern Belle who is forced to leave her beloved South behind is an almost tragic character.

At 2106, McCoy arrives at the main entrance. There’s a tray in his hands and a warm smile on his face. Spock stands up.

“Evening, Spock. I should’ve known you’d be here exactly on time.”

“Needless to say,” Spock replies, hands behind his back despite knowing that this occasion is anything but formal. His gaze lands on the tray and the beverages on top of it. There are lemon slices and ice cubes placed inside of each glass.

“Let’s go inside that cabin,” McCoy suggests and vaguely points his index finger to one of the deck’s booths, the kind which could be sealed off with a thin purple curtain to grant a little privacy. They leave their shoes outside of it. Inside, right underneath the great observation window, there’s a tiny drop-leaf table on which McCoy carefully places the tray. The smile has not once left his face.

“So, Mister Spock,” he begins and signals him to sit down. “A Southern Belle’s most crucial characteristic – I could see it rack your logical Vulcan brains.”

Spock nods in acknowledgement. It’s pleasingly dark in here.

“Well, this is it,” McCoy proclaims and hands Spock one of the glasses. “The ability to make perfect sweet tea and mint juleps. The Southern hospitality’s greatest quality.”

With a raised eyebrow, Spock eyes the beverage. “It’s cold tea,” he notices.

McCoy’s blue eyes sparkle. “Yes! Exactly. Cold, sweet tea. You know I make a damn good mint julep, so I figured I’d go with sweet tea this time,” he says with such an enthusiastic smile that Spock quirks another eyebrow at him, lips curling upwards. The Doctor would never cease to be a hopeless sensualist, that much is certain.

“Go ahead, try it!” McCoy urges. “All self-made like the real thing. This ain’t from the synthesizer, you know.”

Spock finds a loophole to wind him up: “That statement is incorrect. While you may have prepared and mixed the drink yourself, the single ingredients are made by the ship’s food synthesizer.”

McCoy finally sits down, opposite to Spock. He utters with that very feral tone of his, “Yeah, well. They are, except for the tea, I bought that on the market we visited on Rigel IV some time ago. Lemons don’t grow in outer space, Spock.”

The glass continues to cool Spock’s palms. As he eyes it, McCoy whispers, “The house wine of the South, as one famous film once called it. God, I haven’t drunken it for ages.”

Spock looks up. “It resembles a traditional Vulcan drink typically served at marriages,” he says, to which McCoy replies, “Well, Mister Spock. Lots of planets have a South.” His smirk is soft and warm, totally disregarding what Spock just told him. He can spot no shame whatsoever in the Doctor’s eyes, and so he decides to finally raise his drink to touch glasses with him. Eye contact intense as ever.

Spock silently nips at it. It’s sweet and bitter, like a blend of two natures, but unlike its Vulcan equivalent, the drink in his hand is spicy and fruity and colorful. Very rich in taste. An estimated 23.21 percent of it were sugar.

“It’s not healthy,” Spock says when nothing else comes to his rattling mind.

And McCoy dismisses it with the most illogical thing for a doctor to say: “Who cares?” He lifts his glass again and fixates Spock with blue eyes over the edge. “Cheers,” he says quietly. His eyes stay on Spock for much longer. It’s electrifying.

The ship’s engines roar softly beneath them as they fall silent. Time after time, one of them would drink and the other would follow, probably to avoid conversation. Stars fly by outside, and Spock almost startles at how entrancing the Doctor looks in their tender glow as he watches them pass with adoration and alienation alike.

Spock’s feet feel soft upon the carpeted floor and his throat relaxes with the cold tea. He’s more than pleased to find his body phasing down like this.

Somewhen, the right foot of the Doctor’s crossed legs bounces, and he puts his glass onto the table to say, “Well, that was my little surprise. Did you like it?”

Spock looks up to find dreamy eyes mustering him with great softness. He clears his throat and replies, “There is a number of things I find most satisfactory indeed. Firstly, the solution to your riddle is very logical – a paradox, considering it sprung from your emotional state of mind. It’s nostalgic and typical for the old US South. Secondly, the drink itself does taste rather good, despite its heightened sweetness. Thirdly, this location has a peculiar charm that I cannot escape from, apparently.”

All throughout his monologue, Spock has fixated McCoy with a surprisingly soft expression, mirrored by the Doctor himself. And then Spock adds, “Lastly, your company tonight, Doctor, is most pleasing.”

McCoy purses his lips and looks down, a sheepish reaction that Spock issues as a success (success in what, exactly?). “Thanks, Spock,” he says, arms crossed in giggly bashfulness. “Same to you.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

There’s a small pause ere McCoy drawls, “I’m happy you said yes to this little game. One time I thought I offended you ‘cause you would not talk to me for days. But judging from your condition today, I think now I can tell you: I’d hoped it would distract you.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow at him. “As a matter of fact, it did. But from what, if I may ask? My work as Science Officer and First Officer is crucial for the functioning of the ship; it would be illogical of you to sabotage it.”

McCoy snickers, still avoiding eye contact. “No. No, Spock, nothing of that nature,” he says.

In the light of the ship’s exterior illumination falling inside the booth, Spock looks at McCoy’s crossed arms and understands. “Jim.” Distraction from possible feelings of guilt? How tasteless. However, it has worked. In a very crude, primitive way.

McCoy shifts. “Yes,” he says. “’cause the way you looked at him hadn’t changed, even days after the mission. But to be fair, distraction was only one half of my motivation. The other… well, you can see it now, can’t you? Can’t you, Spock?”

Finally he brings himself to look at Spock, who simply blinks in confusion.

McCoy sighs. “Urgh, you…!” With a dismissive gesture, he closes his eyes for 5.67 seconds and growls, embracing himself more closely. When he opens his eyes again, he looks like a scared animal, but there’s something, _something_ so affectionate in his expression that Spock’s mouth falls open.

“The true nature,” he says absently and stands up – it just seems more appropriate. The glass lands on the carpet with a soft thud. “Spock,” McCoy says disapprovingly and bends down to get it, but Spock catches his hands and holds them, holds them, holds them, eyes locked firmly as he pulls McCoy to his feet. The Doctor breathes heavily, and for a moment his expression is laced with fear, panic even. Spock lets go of his hands, mouth still open.

With a surprised laugh, McCoy frowns. His eyes are questioning.

“I apologize,” Spock utters, but McCoy just shakes his head. “Spock,” he mumbles with amusement, “that’s not how you do it. Here.”

When he cautiously reaches for Spock’s hand, takes it, squeezes it, runs a gentle thumb over rough skin, looking up ere placing a featherlight kiss on his knuckles – Spock realizes the full force of being loved by someone as intense as Leonard McCoy. His heart rate increases and his mouth still won’t close. McCoy, on the other hand, is calm and collected, lowering Spock’s hand. He sighs and smiles upwards. Oh, the jauntiness of the sensualist in emotional situations.

“I’m sorry,” he drawls, Southern accent dropping from his every word, “I guess this must be pretty vulgar to you. Is it appropriate for a Vulcan to do that?”

Spock blinks, hands tingling pleasantly. “What is appropriate for a human to do?” he asks back, taking a deep breath.

A well-considered action, as it turns out, because his lungs feel as though they stopped working when McCoy leans in and raises himself on tiptoes to lay his chapped lips on top of Spock’s. They’re warm and soft against each another, and because of the Doctor’s tilted head, his nose gently pushes into Spock’s cheek. Blue eyes closed.

Contrastingly, Spock’s eyes grow wider and his chest broadens, but not with air.

After approximately five seconds of still contact – Spock couldn’t count right now – McCoy pulls his lips away and returns to his heels, and his smile and his eyes glow with such softness in the faint light that Spock can’t stop his lips from curling upwards.

His chest warms up because he is so happy to see McCoy like this. He _feels_ happy.

Wordlessly, McCoy leans in again, and this time his fingers coil up on Spock’s nape, a gentle prompt to tilt his head. He’s so very close… Spock follows the invitation and closes his eyes like McCoy has done before, letting himself be pulled down, and then they kiss again. McCoy’s other hand cups is face as he starts moving his lips. The small smacking sounds send shivers down Spock’s spine, as does the thumb McCoy rubs over his neck.

These are the hands that save lives, Spock thinks, and gives in to the urge to move his own hands upwards, to place them on McCoy’s slender back, to grip and pull him even closer. Warm chests pressed against each other – the effect on his lips is graciously delicious. They taste of lemons.

The Doctor is so small in his embrace and their kiss so chaste that Spock is genuinely confused about how he could ever think of this as shameful. Just how? It is most wholesome. ‘Flirty but ultimately prude’, he remembers and surpresses a chuckle. This isn’t what he wants to think about now. In fact, he’s fascinated to find he does not want to think at all. McCoy’s hot breath against his bare lips is too amazing, his little smile shines, and his forehead is perfect for nuzzling, Spock finds instead. He is completely caught up in this moment. He indulges in the sensation.

Softly, McCoy snickers and removes his hand from Spock’s nape, allowing him to embrace his tiny frame firmer. Even when he lays onto the carpeted floor sometime later to look through the roof window right into the universe (or to avoid fainting?), he allows Spock to explore him, to let his nose stroke over his skin, to nudge their heads against each other in affection. On top of all these sensations, the smell of lemons and tea makes Spock melt; it’s benumbing in the best sense of the word – the Doctor’s best anesthetic yet.

Against his first impression, McCoy’s breathing and heart rate are increased, Spock notices with his head on his chest. Its rumbling when he speaks up is lovely: “You have no idea how thankful I am right now. Thank you, Spock. For letting me in.”

There it is, the gratitude expression. Spock answers it with a warm hand on his belly, and McCoy shifts with a sigh. “Even at Warp 2, they go by so slowly,” he whispers.

At first this may seem a strange comment, especially if you don’t know Leonard McCoy. Right now he’s talking about the stars with such wonder that Spock can’t help but close his eyes to melt into the blue uniform. It pulls a warm chuckle from McCoy, which increases when Spock lets two fingers ghost over his neck and cheek. Anything to let him know how much Spock appreciates him, values him. Adores him. He wants to welcome him out here, so far away from his home. He is welcomed despite his fear. He is cherished.

Spock embraces him silently, fully concentrating on the warm body beside him.

As McCoy continues his stargazing, he snuggles closer and closer, head right next to Spock’s. “Never thought I’d say this, but… Almost feels like home,” he whispers.

Oh, what a thing to say. While he still thinks about how much this must mean to McCoy, Spock remembers the term Jim mentioned back at their dinner and decides to use it, because casual talking is known to be comforting: “Does this approximately come close to a ‘hot Georgia summer night’?”

“You have no idea.”

“Which is why I’m asking.”

“Well, yeah, approximately, yes,” McCoy whispers and laughs raucously. The pleasure makes him move delightfully beneath Spock’s fingers.

“That statement is interesting, because we are in open space, where there is neither day nor night, and not Georgia -”

“As I said, the South is in a lot of places,” McCoy says louder. With an affectionate snap in his voice, he adds, “Now shut up, or I’ll make ya.”

Oh? With that, Spock rolls on top of him, one leg on either side of his small body and pressing it down with all his weight. Intrigued by the play, he cups the soft face with both his hands and, against the corner of McCoy’s mouth, he says, “That should prove most sublime. In which case I shall continue talking.”

Blissfully, McCoy smiles and touches him on his arms and shoulders, but it’s no serious protest. It’s a hug. “Stupid Vulcan,” he smiles as Spock sinks his lips in the warm junction between his head and neck and starts moving. He is most delighted to find that his actions are giving the Doctor trouble speaking, especially when his lips find his ear: “I won’t let you… have the last…”

Undeterred, Spock continues kissing him, but he always makes sure McCoy is comfortable and still able to see the stars above.

_The stars ain’t got nothing on you_  
_Your heart burns much brighter than the moon_  
_If you ever feel lost and broken inside_  
_Just remember the way you helped me shine_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you like tell me your thoughts in the comments ♡


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